


Adventures in Journalism - or - May I Quote You on That?

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child, The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Action Journalism, Adventure Journalism, Alternate Universe - Crossover, But Lots of HR Wells, Cinnamon Roll HR, Excitement Journalism, HR Wells Needs More Love, Heavy Headcannon Ahead, Not that Much Actual Journalism tbh, Other, Reporter HR, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Will Probably be Jossed When the Next Episode Airs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9432917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: Sometimes, getting the story on Earth-19 means braving the dangerous, the implausible, and the unstable.  Sometimes, getting the story on Earth-19 means throwing caution to the wind and charging ahead where fools and angels dare not tread.  Sometimes, getting the story on Earth-19 means having good friends and better enemies.  Sometimes, Mr. HR Wells is uniquely qualified to get the story on the mad, mad Earth he calls home.Or, 5 stories HR Wells got with the help of Agent Pendergast's friends (and enemy), and 1 he gave away.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofpride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofpride/gifts).



> _So... just a **bit** of a story behind this one. You know, more so than the usual "my mental landscape is a strange and dangerous place wherein strange and dangerous things take form._
> 
> _The first thing to note is that, while I do not actually participate in the tumblr myself, there are one or two tumblr pages I pay regular attention to. One of these - and one to check out if you're a Flash fan - belongs to ladyofpride, who also has an account here on AO3. One day, whilst deeply enjoying the musings of another HR fan (and seriously, why don't more people like this precious cinnamon roll?!), I moved from a post theorizing that HR Wells might actually be a reporter (which was awesome and made lots of sense) and into a post wherein she was talking about the Pendergast books. AKA, a series that I have been... somewhat of a rabid fan of for the better part of a decade. And about which I've always wanted to write some fanfics but have never able to make anything work. Not all that surprisingly, it took all of three seconds for my plotbunnies to wake up and sink their pointy little teeth into the connection, and the next thing I knew I was writing a reporter!HR Wells/Pendergast crossover. Because, **seriously** you guys, both of these things need way more love._
> 
> _So, this is partly for my own bizarre mind and desire to make weird connections, and more partly for ladyofpride, who was its inspiration._
> 
> _Anyhoo, enjoy!_
> 
> _PS: Flash components take place (obviously) several years before HR crossing realities in "New Rogues" (3x03). Pendergast components are slightly-to-significantly divergent from cannon, but potential spoiler[ish] warnings for elements through... let's say "Cemetery Dance?" With a **tiny** spoiler from "White Fire." Just to be safe. ;)_

_"Sibilant Sacrilege – Sinister Serpent Sect Stalking Society"_

“How did you get in here?” Dr. Margo Green forced herself to take a deep breath, focusing on the in-five hold-five out-five count and _not_ on the familiar urge to reach out and shake that dorky, boyish, not at all charming grin from the reporter’s face. “Even the members of the staff that don’t personally know you by now have your picture, and you are _literally_ the worst at being subtle. So _how_?”

Looking not at all abashed about waltzing into an _extremely_ restricted area, the source of all Margo’s frustration twirled a pen in one hand and, nodding his head to the side, winked cheekily, “I always travel with coffee and assorted snacks. You know,” he waggled his eyebrows at her, “for bribery purposes.”

The scientist felt an involuntary twitch in one eye. Damn the Central City Museum of Natural and Paranatural History and its refusal to properly feed and caffeinate its employees. The board probably had no idea how lucky they were that most reporters lacked the non-linear thinking necessary to – apparently – bypass security completely; otherwise there would be more members of the press wandering the halls than actual employees. “Well that’s just… admittedly very clever of you.” The reporter’s grin intensified at the grudging admission – and ok, _fine_ , it _was_ stupidly charming – and Margo allowed herself a tiny smile in response. “Now then, Mr. Wells?” Still smiling warmly, she narrowed her eyes, “Please leave.”

That at least took a few watts out of the intruder’s grin.

For approximately three seconds, after which time it returned to its usual luster. “Ah, come on Doc! I made a special effort to get to _you_ specifically! For four bags of Candied Chocolate Bites, two boxes of glazed donut holes, some organic kale chips, a double-shot espresso, and a gluten-free artisan brownie _less_ I _could_ have gotten in to see Dr. Bortz instead.” He paused dramatically – and, annoyingly, _just_ long enough for her eye to twitch at the name of her less than pleasant peer – before punctuating his next words with a grand sweep of his pen-hand, “But no! I knew that my readers deserved only the _best!_ And so I made my way, at great cost, you, Dr. Green.” He dipped his head and turned up the dimples, eyes sparkling, “Because you’re brilliant. And my favorite.”

Margo met his sparkles, unmoved.

Wells turned up the dimples even _more_. “I’ve got a bag of Black Forest cookies,” he sang playfully, “just for you.”

Margo’s breath caught momentarily, and she swallowed, determined to remain unmoved. “Mr. Wells -” he gave a puppy-like whine and pouted, and – against her better judgment – she sighed in fond exasperation and allowed a smile, “ _HR._ ” The grin returned. “I hate to ruin your day, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Oh come on, Doc,” the too-charming man slipped a cellophane package of chocolaty, cherry-filled goodness out of his shoulder-bag and circled it temptingly under her nose, “The museum brought you in specifically to -”

“Examine the remains of a seventy-three year old woman, a native of the Quapaw tribe, who has been in the museum’s storage for approximately ninety-eight years.” She made herself focus on the returning pout, and _not_ on the delicious – probably homemade, damn the man – baked goods. “That’s all.” She shrugged and moved to guide him towards the door, “Sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

HR Wells met her gaze, eyebrow cocked incredulously, and implicitly but politely refused to be guided. “Really? The CC NatPat – which has four geneticists on staff and a half-dozen associates on call within driving distance – called in one of the premier geneticists in _the world_ ,” she refused to blush at the manipulative praise, no matter how true or nice to hear it was, “a woman whose help is sought after by the FBI, Effective Engineering Solutions, Inc., Mercury Labs, _S.T.A.R._ Labs,” he gave a vague but pointed ‘come on now’ gesture, “and any number of other government and private agencies and laboratories, flew her in from New York without a moment’s notice, and set her up in a very state of the art and hard to get into lab…” the eyebrow reached peak incredulity, “just to examine the ninety-eight year old remains of a seventy-three year old Quapaw woman?”

She kept her gaze cool and unimpeachable, “The preservation and exploration of the history of indigenous Native American tribes is very important. Besides,” she sniffed, “the remains are well over 200 years old, the _museum_ has only had them for ninety-eight.”

“Uh-huh.” The reporter looked entirely unconvinced, “What about the eye-witness accounts of museum staff excavating a burial site in the mountains?”

“Public misunderstanding of a basic mineralogical survey.”

“Further accounts of glowing lights and disembodied wailing near the site?”

“Wild rumors started by a couple of pot-heads.”

“Reports that the body in question possesses a tail instead of legs?”

“A description of a mummified body, as seen from a great distance and in poor lighting conditions.”

“The guard who swears the body is covered in scales and has fangs?”

“Sleep deprivation and on the job inebriation.”

“The fact that one of the hands has slipped off the table and I can clearly see its _talons_?”

“Arthritis.”

Margo Green was a consummate professional, a dignified woman of science, and a mature and responsible adult. As such, she did not feel even the slightest flicker of juvenile glee or the desire to pump a fist victoriously in the air at HR Wells slack-jawed and wide-eyed look of disbelief. 

No sir and/or ma’am, not even a little bit. 

“Look, HR,” she jumped in before he could regain his metaphorical footing, “I hate to disappoint you, I really do, but this is all just a matter of course. I can _assure_ you,” she waved off his disbelieving sigh, “The Central City Museum of Natural and Paranatural History is _not_ investigating a secret ancient cult of snake people.”

HR opened his mouth, raised his pen-hand, and the wall behind them exploded.

Staggering backwards, HR’s free hand clasped firmly on her elbow, the two coughed heavily and tried to wave some of the dust from the air.

Then a huge gust of wind came from the direction of the former wall, and Margo and HR found themselves staring at a group of androgynous figures in snake robes.

Both groups stared at each other in surprise, incredulity, and a touch of bewilderment. Then the leader of the snake people abruptly drew an absurdly large scimitar and brandished it in their general direction. “Relinquish the Ancient One, infidelsss! Or fassse the wrath of your future overlordsss!”

Margo stared for a moment longer. Then, pointedly not looking at the monumental grin on HR’s face, she drew her pulse-rifle from underneath her desk. “This. Proves. Nothing.”

\-----

_"Brutal Brainteaser – Zombie Menace Comes to a Head"_

“I must admit, Mr. Wells, I am rather… flattered that a journalist of your renown would take an interest in my activities. I imagine you must have a great many projects vying for your attention, so it means a great deal that you chose to devote your valuable time to my humble endeavors. Though I must admit a certain… curiosity.” A flash of silver flickered up between their faces, “I wonder, Mr. Wells, if you would be so kind as to tell me _how_ you found out about my current enterprise and made your way to my little workshop.”

HR Wells swallowed thickly, trying not to press against the scalpel blade that was tapping rhythmically against his lower lip and, fingers twitching nervously, considered his answer. “Oh, I had no _idea_ that this freakshow was connected to _you_ , and right now I am metaphorically kicking myself for not doing more research because – assuming I survive the day – this is going to be prime nightmare fuel for the rest of my life. Honestly, I was just following the trail of amygadala-less murder zombies, saw their connection with that pipe-organ repair shop – and, ok, kudos on the pun, I wouldn’t have figured you’d be the type but it was nice and understated – and thought I’d throw common sense to the wind like a good reporter and have a look-see. Figured I’d get some fringe science nut or recently fired military doctor, maybe a disgruntled college instructor or recent Gotham transplant. _Believe me_ , had I known it was _you_ I would’ve skipped a couple continents and then called in an orbital strike or something. Because you’re crazy and you scare me. A lot. But, you know, thanks for the compliment, it’s always nice to meet a fan, even one who’s a completely unhinged supervillian with a torture and murder fetish; and, say, are you going to feed me my own eyeballs before you disembowel me or go with the disemboweling first and then strangle me with my small intestines? I’m just curious.”

And then – because no matter what his friends or partner said HR _did_ have a sense of his own mortality and functioning self-preservation instinct – he said precisely _none_ of that. Instead he smiled charmingly, and gave a tiny, apologetic, please-don’t-murder-me-y shrug. “A good reporter has their ways. Ah-anonymous sources,” he gasped out hurriedly when the cold eyes narrowed and the scalpel pressed ever so slightly harder against his skin, “are very important to maintain in my business. Journalistic integrity… code of honor and ethics and all that… you know how it is.” He inhaled shakily and turned his smile up a few watts, “I give up my sources and I might as well sell myself off – body and soul – to the tabloids and call it a day, you know?”

For a few agonizing seconds the scalpel remained motionless, cold eyes locked onto his. Then, abruptly, Diogenes Pendergast – mass murderer, serial killer, evil genius nonpareil, empowered supervillain, and all around person you did _not_ want to get to the handcuff stage with – pulled the blade back with an elegant flourish and an antebellum smile. “Heaven forbid that a man of your talents should fall in such a manner.” The words came out in a purr, rich with good old fashioned Southern gentility, warm and rich as top-shelf scotch, and smooth as fresh blood draining from an eviscerated body. “You must forgive my prying, Mr. Wells; sometimes my inquisitive nature gets the best of my manners. In any regard,” his smile warmed slightly, lips pulling back just enough to reveal the sharp tips of his eyeteeth, like a well-fed and very bored cat, “I doubt the question of how you found me will trouble me for much longer.”

HR’s breath caught in his throat, and he reflexively ran his tongue over his lips.

He then failed to suppress the involuntary flinch and shudder when that reaction brought a sharp sting and the acrid tang of blood from the razor-thin cut on his lower lip.

Several feet away, Diogenes Pendergast continued speaking, apparently oblivious to his captive audience’s discomfort if not for the small, cruelly amused smirk on his face and the undertone of almost childlike satisfaction in his manner. “Now then, I am afraid we will have to cut our discourse short; I do, after all, have quite a bit of work to do.” He gestured vaguely to a cluster of steel-barred cages at the edge of the room, then paused, a touch of wistful disappointment on his face, “A pity. I would have loved to read another of your articles, now that you have a greater understanding of my little experiment.”

Almost as if on cue, one of the amygdala-less zombies – vaguely recognizable as a locally based FBI agent who had recent featured in HR’s series of articles on misconduct and brutality within government agencies – slammed himself bodily against the bars of his cage, hands extended between the bars in grasping claws, spewing worldless screams and saliva into the room and setting off the other similarly altered captives. Instinctively, the reporter recoiled, pressing himself further into the steel at his back, wide eyes darting from the caged horrors to the horrific architect.

“Oh, but please, don’t worry Mr. Wells,” the genteel monster stepped close, near enough now that his breath gusted over HR’s face in a very disquieting and distracting way, “I have far too much respect for you to unmake you in such a…” he chuckled softly, one hand tracing the tip of his scalpel over HR’s face in a not-at-all unsettling parody of a caress while the other played with the top button of HR’s shirt, “vulgar manner.”

HR fought down a full bodied shudder, mind running through minor variations of ‘I need an adult’ and ‘Why are the truly crazy ones always so bad-touchy?’

“No…” the supervillian mused, a light of feverish artistry glowing behind his mismatched eyes, “no… a man of your talents requires something more…” he inhaled deeply, the tip of the scalpel suddenly pressing into his skin, effortlessly splitting an elegantly curved red line from his temple to his jaw, gentle smile turning almost rapturous as HR hissed in pain, “elegant. Don’t you think?”

Heart racing and fingers twitching wildly, HR tried desperately to think of something – anything – to stall the cultured lunatic from… cutting off his skin and using it to recreate the Vitruvian Man or making his bones and viscera into a flower arrangement or whatever the hell sadistic psychopaths considered elegant. “I – ah!” He squeezed his eyes together, trying to keep breathing deeply and _not_ resort to hyperventilation when a perfectly matching curve was cut into the other side of his face with a low, amused hum. “I think,” he took a deep breath, forcing his voice to stay steady and opening his eyes, “that you –” his eyes widened suddenly, “giant angry psychic gorilla.”

Diogenes Pendergast froze, scalpel resting lightly against the left corner of his mouth. His eyes narrowed slightly, focused so intently that HR actually found his gaze being pulled back helplessly, the power behind the psychopath’s blue and hazel eyes as hypnotic as some eldritch serpent (literally, and HR would know). For a few seconds the other man stared at him, apparently deciphering the non sequitur and working out whether or not it was merely a nonsensical and ill-advised insult. Then, slowly, the supervillain turned to look behind himself.

Gorilla Grodd stood in the doorway.

He looked _pissed_.

The mad genius stared at the giant angry psychic gorilla for a moment, then looked back at HR. “Ah.” Breathing a gentle sigh, he stepped back and offered HR an apologetic smile, “I am _terribly_ sorry, Mr. Wells, but I’m afraid I must neglect you for a short time, while I… _attend to_ a former colleague.” His expression flickered, taking on a shade of anxious embarrassment, like a dinner host who had to take a phone call immediately after serving pork chops to a visiting Rabbi, “You… don’t mind…”

HR waved one hand as best as he could, fixing the politest and most understanding smile he could muster on his face, “No, no, I understand, of course.” He nodded obligingly, “It’s no trouble at all!”

“A fellow artist _and_ a gracious gentleman.” Diogenes Pendergast’s smile returned, warmed by gratitude and a touch of affection. Then, with a gracious bow, the human supervillain turned his attention towards the gorilla supervillain. “Good evening, Dr. Grodd. I must say, this _is_ quite a surprise. Why, I’ve not seen or heard from you in…” he tilted his head to the side in contemplation, “just under four months.” He hummed, nodding decisively, “Yes, at that little excursion to Kasnia, wasn’t it?”

Grodd’s lips pulled back in a feral snarl, showing off a mouth full of very large and very lethal teeth. “You tiny, insignificant, feebleminded, deranged shaved _monkey_!” The simian supergenius roared, all but frothing at the mouth as he glared down at the unfazed human, “I am going to _feed_ you your own diseased brain!”

There was a minute tensing of Diogenes Pendergast’s shoulders. “Well now…” the purr was velvety and full of menace, “I see that your manners have not improved during our time apart.”

There was a split-second of crushing stillness.

Then the light flashed off Diogenes Pendergast’s scalpel, almost blinding as he brought it up with an elegant flourish, just as Gorilla Grodd roared in mindless rage and charged forward. 

For his own part, HR Wells decided that it was a really good time to ditch his cuffs and get the hell out of Dodge. 

But not before grabbing his pen from off of a little medical tray and slipping his mini-camera out from a hidden pocket in his jacket, pausing just long enough to capture the image of the supervillains’ clash: Grodd, arms raised in the air and mouth wide in a primal roar, seemingly oblivious to the small horde of amygdala-less zombies swarming over his massive form like a colony of ants, and Diogenes Pendergast, charging forward with all the grace and menace of some murderous dancer, one hand holding the deceptively innocuous blade and the other wreathed in sickly, eldritch flames.

He did, after all, have his journalistic integrity to think of. 

\-----

_"Crime vs Punishment – Supercriminal Duo Bring an End to Vigilante’s Reign of Terror"_

As good plans went… theirs wasn’t one.

“Drive faster, drive faster, drive faster, you need to drive _faster_ right now, much, much fast-”

_“What do you think I’m **doing**?!”_

_**“Omnibus!”** _

Corrie Swanson – student of John Jay College of Criminal Justice, pretty petite powerhouse, and dyed in the wool badass normal final girl type – cranked the wheel of the taxi they had… appropriated violently to the right, sending them careening on two wheel for significantly longer than taxis were probably supposed to go, and out of the way of the dual-layered vehicle that was both flying through the air and on fire, all while screaming with exertion and adrenaline, and not at all in terror like her accomplice. Clearing the bus, she twisted the wheel to the left, bringing the other two wheels down with a crash and accelerating the hell out of there just before the bus collided with an ill placed building and exploded.

Seriously. The things she did for extra credit.

“Did we lose it?!”

Still hyperventilating a little her passenger, one HR Wells – investigative reporter for the _Central City Citizen_ , lanky guile hero and adorable action survivor, and all around stellar wingman and partner in crime – clawed himself upright and chanced a glance through the rear window.

Just in time for a missile to narrowly miss their ride and explode a defenseless tree a few feet away.

“Nope!” HR wheeled back, pressing himself against his seat and latching one hand onto the door in a death grip, the fingers on his other hand clenched tightly around his favorite pen, tapping it franticly against his leg. “We did not lose it, it’s still there, it’s still really mad, please drive faster!”

A medley of artfully crafted profanity spilling out of her mouth, Corrie pressed the gas pedal against the floor, willing the car to – somehow – outrun the highly advanced Securibot™ that had taken extreme issue with their “trespassing” in the land of the living. 

“This is _your_ city, HR.” She swerved once to avoid another missile, then again to get back off the sidewalk and onto the road. “Give me something!” Another explosion hit – way, _way_ too close for anyone’s comfort – and brought a stream of stuttered half-thoughts from the passenger seat. _“HR!”_

“There!” He thrust a hand towards a side street, and Corrie immediately cranked the wheel to follow his direction, nearly flipping the taxi again. Swearing under his breath and struggling upright again, HR glanced back out the rear window. “Take your next left, there’ll be construction site just ahead, we might be able lose it in there.”

“Awesome,” Corrie hissed between her teeth, dodging a few more blasts from their pursuer and drifting into the expansive development, “just what this afternoon needed. A high-speed car chase through a death maze with a killer robot playing high-stakes cops-and-robbers. How could this get any – oh come on.”

One day, Corrie swore to herself, staring at the _second_ Securibot™ directly ahead, she would learn to not tempt Murphy.

But in that moment… what the hell.

“Corrie?”

“I see it.”

Aiming the taxi in a straight line, she pressed down on the gas pedal.

“Corrie.”

“I see it.”

The second Securibot™ turned towards them, raising one missile-launching hand at them.

_“Corrie.”_

“I _see_ it.”

The roar of the first Securibot’s™ rockets thundered behind them, closing ground now that she’d abandoned their “strategy” of driving erratically.

**_“Corrie!”_ **

**_“Yippee-ki-yay Tinmen!”_** Securibot™ Two was close enough that she could see the grooves between its plating, and Corrie Swanson grinned like a madwoman, _**“Eat each other!”**_ With one more violent crank of the wheel the taxi veered off sharply, skidding into a massive concrete cylinder, and _just_ outpacing the gout of flame created from Thing One and Thing Two’s collision.

Next to her, HR whooped, pumping his fist in the air as Corrie burst into triumphant, slightly maniacal laughter and _finally_ started to ease up on the gas pedal.

They were both still laughing and cheering when they cleared the cylinder and a missile took out the back half of their taxi.

Coughing roughly and trying to blink the mix of pure black fog and painfully sparking lights from her eyes, Corrie shook her head. Corrie then immediately decided that was a mistake, started trying not to throw up, and proceeded to mentally curse the world for swimming around her and making not being sick that much harder. 

A low groan echoed distantly from her right, and she forced her eyes to open and her head to turn.

Her first thought was to wonder when HR had found enough gel to make his hair stand straight up like that. Her second thought was to wonder why he was throwing his arms in the air like he was on a rollercoaster. Her third thought was “oh, freakin’ _duh_ Corrie, the taxi’s upside-down.”

Then her brain managed to click back on _all_ the way, and a few dozen other thoughts came flooding in. Chief of which being: “Oh. Oh _shit_. HR. _HR._ ” She managed to get one arm up, then managed to grab and start shaking his shoulder on her second try. “Wake up!” Either the shaking or her tone got through, because the reporter jolted awake with a start, and promptly gasped out a particularly creative arrangement of profanity. Empathizing perfectly, Corrie pulled back and started fighting with her jammed seatbelt, “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here before -”

HR’s eyes had flickered hazily towards her, then froze and sharpened with horrified clarity. Heart seizing, Corrie’s fingers fumbled to stillness and, with terrified deliberation, she turned her head.

Outside the remains of her window stood a third Securibot™, the metallic colossus staring down at her like a copyright infringing mashup of The Annihilator and AutomOfficer.

Corrie’s mouth went dry. Then, a cold resignation settling in, she glared at the murderbot. “You… _cheating_ bucket of bolts.”

Something brushed against her hand, and she pushed back comfortingly when HR’s fingers – somehow still clutching his companion-pen – tapped against her own, breathing steadily and staring up defiantly. The Securibot™ stared back at her for a moment longer, then raised one missile-hand, and promptly went flying in a white-blue blast of energy.

Blankly, Corrie stared at the empty patch of ground that had – a second ago – supported her imminent death. “What.”

Another blast of energy sailed past her window, followed by the sound of metal shattering. More confused than anything else, Corrie turned back to stare at HR, who looked… suddenly giddy, and was now squeezing her hand in excitement. Then there was a crunch of gravel and rustle of cloth to her left, HR looked like he was about to start squealing in joy, and – more than somewhat bewildered – Corrie turned back to the remains of her window.

There was a man crouching outside the taxi, head cocked to the side and lips tilted upwards in a ridiculously pretty and deeply amused smirk.

The man was wearing dark goggles, a fur-lined greatcoat, and had a massive gun – lit from within with a brilliant blue-white light – hanging at his side. 

“Well, well, Mr. HR Wells...” Their rescuer cocked his head in her direction, “and associate.”

“Hi!” HR chirped, waving.

“Holy shit,” she gasped, staring, “you’re Citizen Cold.” Corrie probably looked really stupid, gaping at the newcomer with unabashed awe, a flush on her face that had nothing to do with her hanging upside down, but at that moment she couldn’t have cared less. “I… I will probably never say this or anything like it on record because it’d probably tank my career, but I really loved your union work with the Keystone and Central sex workers. And with the Stagg tenements last January. And that thing with LexCorp and TYGER and the giant hamster was _amazing_.”

The Twin Cities’ most beloved infamous son stared at her blankly for a moment. Then he grinned brightly at her, teeth sparkly white and perfect. “Wow, you’re a _real_ fan. Most people who run into me get stuck on thing with Moth Master and the defabricator.” 

The flush grew. “Well… I mean… that was pretty amazing… too.”

“Hell yes it was.” HR sounded altogether too perky for someone who had nearly just died a few dozen times, and had been hanging upside-down for at least three minutes straight. Not that, in their current company, Corrie blamed him over much. “Say, um… Citizen? Now that you’ve saved our lives rather handily – and, incidentally, thanks for that – would you mind getting us down?”

The supercriminal tilted his head back to HR, grinned, and deftly tossed a switchblade to the dangling reporter with an obliging nod. And then, before she could blink, he had another blade in hand and was cutting Corrie free from her seatbelt, effortlessly catching her and sweeping her out of the car and into a bridal carry without a hitch and holy _shit_ the man was _firm_. Like… like _Adonis_ firm. And he had _dimples_ and they were _adorable_ and that just wasn’t fair, because no one should be that adorable and that firm at the same time, _seriously_ man, why do you have to make the rest of the world look sad and inferior with your cuteness and firmness?

Staring down at her, dimples super adorable and kinda begging to be kissed, Citizen Cold raised a deeply amused eyebrow. “Thanks, I think?”

…

Oh screw the whole world in general and her traitorous vocal chords and big mouth in particular.

Flushing again, and now not because of blood rushing to her head _or_ reasons pertaining to their rescuer’s semi-divine physique, Corrie grinned sheepishly upwards. “So… it’s entirely possible that I have a concussion. Can we just… pretend like that possibility’s a concrete fact and that I have zero control on what’s coming out of my face right now and not judge me for verbalizing my shaken and adrenaline-fueled mental rambling?”

And to hell with what corporations and government spokespersons said about him, Citizen Cold was a standup guy who did _not_ burst out laughing – which, seriously, was so nice of him – as he nodded obligingly. “Concussions are serious business, and should never be held against anyone.” His smile took a fairly wicked twist, and he waggled an eyebrow cheekily at her, “Not even when flattery’s involved. Now then, Mr. Wells,” he mercifully turned his attention from her scarlet face and towards where the reporter was extricating himself delicately, “take please? Not that I would mind, normally,” he grinned back at Corrie, “but I really should be getting back to my partner.”

HR – bless the man – stepped up immediately, arms outstretched to receive Corrie. Only the stop short and turn about as red as Corrie probably was when Citizen Cold – still supporting her upper half like she weighed nothing at all – caught HR’s free hand and pressed a soft, slow kiss against the inside of his wrist, before full shifting Corrie over with a purred hum.

And then, as they were both stared red-faced at him, he took Corrie’s hand and placed a similar kiss on her knuckles.

Stepping back, grinning brilliantly at the stunned pair, Citizen Cold gave a sweeping bow, “Mr. Wells, Ms. Associate, I bid you a very good day!” Pulling his Cold Rifle up he started to turn away, paused, and glanced back at them with a cocky smirk, “Try to stay out of trouble, would you?” He winked at them from behind the dark goggles, “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my favorite reporter or such a charming fan.”

And with that he was gone, in a flash or perfect teeth and a dashing swirl of greatcoat.

Resting comfortably in HR’s arms, Corrie stared after the supercriminal. “I love Central City.”

Holding her easily, HR made a wordless sound of profound agreement.

“HR?” Working her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, Corrie chanced a glance upwards. “He’s firm, right?”

HR glanced downwards, and nodded with the utmost sincerity. “Like Adonis to the Bat Man power.”

Several blocks away, there was a sudden, thunderous roar, accompanied by a massive gout of flame arcing up over the skyline and a faint tremor under their feet, drawing their attention back to the real world. As they watched, a small swarm of Securibots™ flew towards the disturbance, plating gleaming under the sun until another gout of flame sent them plummeting to the ground like lumps of charcoal.

HR tensed slightly and Corrie twitched, staring in the direction of the battle.

The reporter hummed softly. “We should probably get to the hospital.”

Corrie nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

A voice broke through the air, words unintelligible but tone of megalomaniac ranting easily distinguishable. In response another – significantly larger – swarm of murderbots flew in, only to be met by a blast of blue-white energy. The ground shook again as half of the robots collided with the earth, and their remaining companions unleashed a barrage of missiles to the chorus of incoherently insane monologuing.

HR looked down at her again, and grinned. “Want to go watch Citizen Cold and Heatstroke make The Warden eat his own Securibots™?”

“Hell yes!”

The reporter whooped in glee and, waiting just long enough for Corrie to get a secure grip around his neck, started sprinting towards the battle.

“This is the best extra credit assignment _ever!_ ” Corrie giggled, a little manically, and gave HR’s neck a brief squeeze. “I don’t care what Pendergast says, you’re the _best_.”

“I know, right?!” Grinning brilliantly, HR sped through the construction yard, dodging and hurdling obstacles like an Olympian carrying a stuffed animal, instead of a reporter carrying a college student. High on adrenaline and adventure, Corrie snuggled into his – also firm, what the hell Central City? – hold and started to mentally outline her own report on the incident. Top seat in class – and, more importantly, maintaining her hold on the “Best Spring Break Story” crown (and the free pizza, beer, and bragging rights that came with it) – was _hers_.

“Wait… _what_ does Pendergast say about me?”

\-----

_"Sub-Urban Jungle – Lost World of the Central City Catacombs"_

“Mr. Wells, you are a menace to society that borders on the classification of natural disaster, your journalistic methods possess all the trappings and credibility of a dime-novel protagonist, and your presence is as unwelcome as it is implausible. Now would you kindly – and in as few words as possible – _explain how you came to be here._ ”

The offending reporter stared at the offended FBI agent, looking exactly like a kicked puppy. “I… I thought Corrie was just joking.”

A muscle at the corner of Pendergast’s eye tensed – not a twitch, mind, for Special Agent Aloysius XL Pendergast would _never_ be so base as to display such a common human expression of annoyance – and Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta tried to cover his burst of laughter with a cough.

Judging by the frigid side glance he got from his unofficial partner, his cover-up wasn’t very successful.

In all honesty, Vinnie probably should’ve been annoyed too. It was, after all, his default state when he crossed paths with a member of the press… well, anywhere really. But damn it, he just _liked_ HR Wells too much. Maybe it was the fact that he was part of that rare breed of reporters with a soul and sense of human decency – one of _two_ that Vinnie knew personally – and that earned some degree of partiality. Maybe it was his willingness to chance the consequences and throw himself against whatever criminal or unethical act he dug up with the same fearless passion – no matter whether it was a supervillain or street thug, corrupt executive or crooked politician, vicious military officer or slick white-collar crook – that earned his respect. Maybe it was the way that he seemed to be a magnet for bizarre and outlandish events that, nevertheless, remained significantly less traumatizing than what he and Pendergast usually got up to together, and the nature of Wild Wells Adventures – Corrie had coined the term – spoke to his often ignored inner child. Or, hell, maybe it was just the fact that – somehow, against all odds – Wells’ very existence seemed to burrow beneath Pendergast’s nearly impenetrable defenses, take up residence, and turn the agent’s perfect control and stoicism inside out, until Vinnie’s closest friend actually resembled a human being, rather than the living avatar of logic and collected reason, and that alone made Vinnie _gleeful_ whenever the reporter appeared out of the aether.

Actually… put in concrete terms like that, it was most probably _all_ of those things, plus a few dozen details more, that made him like Wells.

Definitely that last one, anyway. 

_Especially_ that last one.

Case in point, as Vinnie watched Pendergast was staring at the reporter with an expression that on any other human would translate as “perfectly calm and in control” but on the FBI agent meant “three seconds from beating this irritation to death with his own skull.” Pendergast packed a lot of meaning into subtle expressions, when you got to know him. “Mr. Wells,” the words were _glacial_ , “this is neither the time nor the place for your typical brand of capriciously inconscient juvenility. I ask again that you explain yourself.”

Wells just blinked, expression quizzical. “Did you just use university-words to call me a… ditzy manchild?”

_“Wells.”_

And _damn_ that was almost a _shout_. He should’ve brought popcorn.

“Ok, ok!” The reporter raised his hands in surrender… though Vinnie noticed a distinct twinkle in his eyes. And, judging by the controlled exhale, so did Pendergast. Probably sensing the steadily growing danger, Wells gave an offhanded shrug, “I came in through the back entrance.”

Vinnie blinked, then slowly turned to Pendergast.

Pendergast was staring, emotionlessly, at Wells, the corner of his eye tensing. “What.”

Wells nodded, twirling his pen casually in one hand, “The back entrance,” he reiterated, tilting his head to indicate the direction from which he’d materialized, “out in L. Fox Memorial Park?” He gave them a self-effacing smile and little shrug. “It took a little work to find and open, but I figured it’d still be easier than getting in through a crime lord’s subbasement.”

“… Yeah, you were probably right about that.” Vinnie shrugged off the frigid look that got him, because _seriously_ , that place had been a damned _nightmare_ to get through.

Who even _had_ a trap-door fed shark tank in real life anyway? Or man-eating cyborg tigers. Or several legions of ninja. Or a martial arts wielding grizzly bear.

Honestly, it was like the guy couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a Bond villain or the one to finally kill the Power Sentai and conquer the Earth. 

Some people were just _weird_.

And, speaking of weird people, Pendergast was in legitimate danger of displaying actual human emotions. “Professor Kanigher’s notes,” there was the steel edge of absolute stoicism in the FBI agent’s voice that only appeared when he was _really_ reigning himself in, “held no mention of a back entrance.”

“Oh, not in his notes _proper_ , yeah. He didn’t say _anything_ about it in his journals or notebooks.” Wells grinned boyishly, “It was in his other notes.”

Pendergast remained silent just long enough to confirm that Wells would need to be prompted _again_ , then took a deep breath – possibly to indicate how very displeased he was that he would have to prompt… _again_ – and started trying to gouge out the reporter’s eyes with his own steely gaze. “ _What_ other notes?”

Another shrug, “The ones in his study.”

_“Mr. Wells…”_

HR raised his hands again, grinning, “So I knew Professor Kanigher had a background in cryptography – you know, from way back when – and that he’d been getting really paranoid over the last few years…” he paused, musing, “although… I guess it _was_ kind of justified, what with the ninja marmot- anyway,” he coughed, actually seeming a touch nervous about the look in Pendergast’s eyes, “I figured he’d be the sort to spread information out – hide details here and there to keep them safe from the forces of evil and all that – and that he’d probably use some unconventional means to do it, and _then_ …” he grinned brilliantly, punctuating his revelation with a flourish of his pen, “I remembered that he was an amateur cruciverbalist.”

Vaguely registering Pendergast tensing at his elbow, Vinnie blinked in confusion. Why did word sound so… wait. “Wait.” He cocked his head to the side, quizzically, “The guy wrote crosswords?”

Wells bounced a little on the balls of his feet, beaming, “Yep!” He chirped the word out, popping the p lightly. “So once I got into his place – don’t get mad at the officers on guard, they _may_ have been trying to get a dachshund out of a tree – I checked through his study and found all his crossword stuff and, _voilà_ ,” he gestured triumphantly with the pen, “other notes!”

There was a pause. Then Pendergast took another deep breath – and _damn_ , two in one interaction! – and continued with his steel edge of control, “I examined everything in Professor Kanigher’s study. There was _nothing_ pertaining to the catacombs hidden within his crossword puzzles.”

“Well, I mean,” the reporter shuffled, looking a little embarrassed, “not in the _completed_ ones. It was spread across the ones he wrote and didn’t fill out, alternating between the second, forth, first, third, and sixth drafts of the ones he had marked for the _CC Harbinger_ but never sent out.” He shuffled again under their stares, “It’s a good system. Easy to… not particularly notice.” He smiled sheepishly. “Also… they were really tough crosswords.”

“And yet you noticed and deciphered them.” The frost in the FBI agent’s not-a-question could’ve given hope to a generation of polar bears.  
With another self-effacing smile and shrug, Wells gestured vaguely to himself, “Crossword puzzle wizard.” He beamed up at the FBI agent, smile gleaming with genuine, friendly admiration, “Still, I bet you would’ve figured them out easily too, if you’d noticed them!” 

Pendergast’s eye _twitched_ and in that moment Vinnie would have happily given a kidney for a camera.

Poor dorky bastard was just too nice for his own good, but _damn_ did it make Pendergast’s irrational loathing all the funnier.

_“Right.”_ Speaking of, Pendergast looked like he was on the verge of physically showing his desire to punch the reporter in his brilliant grin. “Mr. Wells, while your ingenuity is… admirable,” it never failed to impress Vinnie how his friend could make a compliment sound like a ‘you should have been drowned at birth’ without any particular effort, “it is time for you to leave.” He raised a hand to cut off Wells’ despairing protest, a sense of actual control returning as he metaphorically cut off and wrenched back the upper hand, “This area is far, _far_ too dangerous for a civilian to enter. Now, kindly return to your,” a lesser man would have sneered, “back entrance and find another story to -”

Something shrieked behind them, the primal sound echoing thunderously through the tunnels, and all three men wheeled towards the source, Vinnie swearing and drawing his revolver a beat behind Pendergast’s Les Baer. “The hell was that?!”

Wells, conspicuously armed with only his pen – which, Vinnie thought, was highly unlikely to prove as mighty as a small stick, let alone a sword or gun or whatever nightmare was coming their way – sighed in resignation behind them, “Probably the Troodon shock-troopers.”

Vinnie and Pendergast stilled, turned to glance at one another, then looked back at Wells in tandem. 

“Troodon shock-troopers.” 

Wells nodded, fiddling with his pen.

Pendergast’s face was as emotive as a block of ice. “Mr. Wells… precisely how much information about the catacombs did Professor Kanigher leave in his crossword notes?”

The pen stilled and, after a beat, another sheepish smile crossed the reporter’s face.

Pendergast’s gaze remained on Wells for a long moment. Then, with a sigh of pure defeat, he turned back towards the approaching shrieks and readied his weapon. “Right then. Onward.”

Bringing up his own gun, Vinnie decided to chance the consequences himself, flashing Wells a grin before moving forward alongside his partner. Abandoned catacombs, ancient ruins, secret societies, secret codes, forbidden treasures, and now Troodon shock-troopers. 

Oh yeah, this was going to be one _hell_ of a ride.

In this aspect of life, at least, Vinnie didn’t give a damn what Pendergast thought. Wild Wells Adventures were the _best_.

\-----

_"Fowl Play – Three-and-Out for Senator’s Nephew"_

Laura Hayward didn’t like Central City.

Admittedly part of that dislike stemmed from basic New Yorker pride, the sort that considered all other places – regardless of merit – automatically inferior to the Big Apple. But, even with that bias acknowledged, there was a lot of dislike available.

First you had the crime families, a bunch of pretentious criminal hipsters that played at being Old School while acting like a bunch of rabid junior high thugs. Then there were the _legions_ of corrupt executives, Robber Barons, and mad scientists – and sure, New York had those too, but in Central City you couldn’t seem to go two feet without tripping over a commune full of them. Then the supervillains/supercriminals – a starkly contrasting mix of slavering psychopaths and blue-collar socialist Robin Hoods. And then there were the speedersters.

Good _Lord_ , the speedsters. 

She honestly wasn’t sure which set was worse – the murderous criminal cult, or the overly exuberant vigilantes who just were as happy sharing a beer with their supposed nemeses as they were stopping their criminal enterprises. It didn’t help that the so called “heroes” of Central City seemed perfectly happy to play – no pun intended – fast and loose with the laws they claimed to support. And that was just assuming that they weren’t actual criminals themselves, like certain – particularly vocal, if not particularly credible – sources claimed; and, Laura supposed, there actually _was_ some support for that idea in the interactions between the vigilante speedsters and the Renegades Guild, as well as the fact that two superhumanly fast people were consistently “unable” to capture a largely baseline hominid collection of criminals…

Not that the average people of Central were any better. Much like the speedsters they practically – and, in some cases, _literally_ – worshiped, the denizens of Central City seemed to file themselves into one of two categories – corrupt, emotionally bankrupt scumbags, and naïve caricatures from classic “feel good” cinema, complete with dialogue ripped straight out of tacky greeting cards. 

And maybe that was the ultimate issue – Central City didn’t really know the meaning of “middle ground.” It was all extremes – dangerously unstable or precise and controlled, self-indulgently corrupt or naively idealistic, unspeakably evil or absolutely all-loving. The only exceptions seemed to appear when you scratched the surface on some of the “angels” of Central who, again like their beloved speedsters, seemed to possess a deeply discomfiting capacity for rabidly self-centered morality and disregard for law and order. Some days it seemed like all you had to do was cause a minor inconvenience and the formerly bright and shining children of Central would be at your throat with sharpened teeth and nails; others you could be minding your own damn business and suddenly run across an entire city block, spontaneously mobilized into a flashmob so as to provide cover for a motley collection of supercriminals’ daring escape. And the _scary_ part was not only that people didn’t seem to _mind_ the juxtaposition… no, it was that they just didn’t seemed to realize that juxtaposition _existed_ in the first place.

At least New Yorkers were upfront about being a bunch of cynical, suspicious, self-invested jackasses with a propensity towards rabid civic pride and overdeveloped pack instincts.

Central’s smiling veneer and whiplash inducing contrasts were just damned _creepy_.

Or, rather, they were creepy when they weren’t being blindly and righteously _infuriating_. Case in point: one Senator Richard Fowl of Central City – a six foot, entitled, shady as hell, aptly named bag of dicks, and the present bane of Laura’s existence.

The only remotely redeeming thing about him was that his smug, triumphant sneer was focused on her face rather than her breasts, though that might have just been because the height difference would have made it too difficult.

“ – trust we understand one another.”

Laura was used to dealing with slimy jackasses like Fowl, and that was approximately ninety percent of the reason why she was able to keep her expression perfectly professional in the face of his smug, self-satisfied condescension. “I think I understand you _perfectly_.” She held his gaze evenly, “Senator.”

Festering slimeball he might have been, but Fowl wasn’t an idiot, and his sneer hardened at her implicit insult and _very_ grudging acquiescence. “I hope that’s true, young woman;” his lip curled, “better careers than yours have been _ruined_ over less.” And, after letting the not at all subtle threat hang in the air for a moment, he swept out of her temporary office, a small army of sycophants swarming and scampering after him like so many cockroaches.

Laura watched him stalk away, breathing deeply and forcing her jaw to relax. 

Some people were almost enough to make her wish for Pendergast to make an appearance. Sure, everything was bound to go to shit within days – if not hours – of his appearance… but at least she’d get to watch him tear a new one in scumbags like Fowl, in that poetically bitchy way of his, before that happened.

And speaking of aggravating and eloquent bitchy mavericks…

Waiting until she was certain Fowl was gone, Laura took a single step out of her office, glancing over to the _other_ present bane of her existence, and the reason she’d had to deal with the first.

“O’Shaughnessy.” The brunet cop – the first she’d chosen to accompany her to Central – glanced over, his conversational partner going very still. Forcing all the frustration and indignation she felt far, far beneath a veneer of professional calm, Laura gave a curt nod of her head and stepped back into her office, just managing to catch a mouthed exchange of “good luck” and “thanks” from the two men.

Moments later there was a polite and very much unnecessary knock at her open door, followed by a very nervous looking smile. “Hi… Captain. You wanted to see me?”

“Get in and close the door, Wells.”

Laura stared evenly at the reporter, tapping one finger against a folder on her desk. Vinnie, she knew, liked and respected HR Wells. Vinnie also liked and respected Pendergast. It was, Laura admitted privately, somewhat amusing that the FBI agent had such a profound distaste for the reporter when the two men were so remarkably similar, beneath all their trappings at least. Both men were highly intelligent, street smart, resourceful, charismatic – in their own, very different, ways – and well-spoken, fearless, loyal, and ultimately dedicated to the greater good. Both men also had very interesting, very _extralegal_ ideas of how to uphold the greater good. 

And it was for these reason that, while she did hold a sort of grudging respect for both men, she did _not_ share her husband’s affection for them.

_Especially_ when one of them was being a monumental dumbass and causing her all sorts of problems.

Damn it all, Central wasn’t her jurisdiction, _she_ shouldn’t even be the one dealing with Wells!

Some of her frustration must have slipped through her professional mask, because the already nervous reporter started to fiddle restlessly with his pen, twirling the stylus between long fingers like a hustler’s coin. “So, uh, Captain Hayward…” Wells chuckled nervously, “have you… had a good time in Central? I mean,” he laughed again, high and awkward, pen dancing, “obviously that’s not what you were here for. You were working so… probably not a lot of time for sight-seeing or anything. Not that you’re inefficient or work slowly or anything!” He paled a little, eyes darting over her face, as though he were searching for signs of offense within her vaguely annoyed indifference, “I just mean that you’re so _dedicated_ to your job... i-in a perfectly normal and healthy and admirable way, and this exchange is… um, it’s…” Wells stammered, a touch of pain overtaking his nervous expression.

“This exchange,” Laura broke in, more than done with the stammering, “is a counterproductive and costly publicity stunt that never should have made it off the drawing-board. And you,” her eyes narrowed as his expression briefly lit up, “may _not_ quote me on that.”

The light in his smile faded, replaced by a look of resigned suspicion. “Right. In that case,” the pen twitched, “what can I do for you, Captain?”

_Reporters._ Laura’s fingers drummed against the file again, a better alternative to pinching the bridge of her nose in obvious frustration. “You should be happy to know that Senator Fowl has decided to _not_ press charges against you.”

“No, of _course_ not.” Wells broke in, usually light voice sharper than she could recall ever hearing in their previous interactions. “It certainly wouldn’t do to draw public attention at a time like this. _Especially_ not for such a high profile sort of lawsuit that’s likely to raise a lot of awkward questions.”

“I have been _instructed_ ,” she continued as though the man hadn’t spoken, “to tell you to leave the Fowl family, and Declan Fowl in particular, _alone_. Especially in regards to making any further accusations without hard evidence in your paper or in public. Otherwise they will,” she resisted the urge to roll her eyes, remembering the painfully obvious threat, “reconsidered that leniency. ”

“So that’s it?” Wells voice was unusually quiet and even, his ordinarily bright eyes cold, “This kid cheats his way into a scholarship – one that he didn’t even _need_ – using performance enhancing drugs, puts his secret boyfriend into intensive care while on a Toxin high, and just _gets away with it?_ ” The last words peaked, high and tense and loud enough that the ambient noises outside her door momentarily died away. Before her, Wells was trembling, fingers white knuckled into fists. “Because his uncle is Mr. Bigshot Senator, with connections in City Hall and the Ministry of Justice and the _NYPD,_ ” he stared at her with something like betrayal, “all the evidence against him is going to get buried.” Wells hissed a breath through his teeth, looking seconds away from hyperventilating with rage, “Ben Raji, a promising med student who _earned_ his scholarship and whose only crime was having poor taste in men, is probably going to be paralyzed for the rest of his life – _assuming_ he ever even wakes up from his coma. Half of the Cougars’ roster is going to be expelled and do hard time for possession and use of a metadrug, even though most of them didn’t even _know_ their teammates were giving it to them. And Declan Fowl,” he spat the name out venomously, “is going to walk away without so much as a slap on the wrist. No restitution for Ben Raji, no apology or token admission of guilt and remorse, no inconvenience for Senator Fowl’s _precious_ little nephew, because he’s got _connections_. _**How**_ -” he cut himself off, breathing heavily, shaking like he was about to come apart. When he finally looked up and started speaking again, his eyes were like chips of frost covered steel, all the reporter’s normal joviality replaced by cold fury and confused helplessness, “You’re a _good cop_ , a good _person_.” He stared into her eyes, desperate and searching, “How can you just -”

__“Wells.” Laura slammed her hand down on the file, meeting his stare and letting a touch of her own rage slip through her Captain’s mask. After a moment of oppressive silence she took a steadying breath, “Do you honestly think that I’m not _just_ as pissed off about this _shit_ as you are?” She let the words hang in the air until, at long last, Wells looked away, guilt coloring his expression. Taking another breath, Laura allowed a touch of her own guilt into her voice, “My hands are tied. That’s the catch,” more distaste crept into her voice than she meant to allow, and Wells’ gaze jerked back to her, “when you work in the system. There are people in power…” she couldn’t fight back a disgusted scoff, “people with power _over you_ , who are more than willing to use that power to further their own ends. And you’re left with a choice: swallow your morals and pride and dance to their tune, or tell them where to shove their connections and start looking for a new career. That means that some days,” she met his gaze pointedly, “if you want to make the system _better_ , if want to protect and serve and see justice done in the end, you have to look the other way and _dance_ for the satisfaction of pricks like Fowl.” Guilt fading at that last sentiment, Wells started opening his mouth, only for her to cut him off by slamming her hand down once more – even more pointedly – on the file dead center of her desk, “ _Wells._ ” She locked eyes with the reporter, “Do you _understand_ what _I’m telling you_ right now.” Laura forced herself to appear calm, tapping her fingers pointedly against the file, “Sometimes to see good done _tomorrow_ ,” her gaze was perfectly cool and even as Wells’ darted between her eyes and the file under her hand, “you have to _look the other way **today**_.”

Wells stared at the file for a long moment, then his eyes abruptly focused on hers, jaw dropping slightly as understanding dawned. 

Now a perfect model of composure and quiet authoritarianism, Laura walked past the reporter, not sparing the thick file a second glance as she opened her door and took a few steps outside. “O’Shaughnessy.” The men and women under her command did an admirable job of looking like they’d been hard at work packing up for the entire discussion, and her nominal second was no exception, setting a file he almost certainly hadn’t been reading down with all the casual boredom of a cop dealing with paperwork and meeting her gaze with the utmost respect. Smart-alecky yutz. Grabbing her jacket off the cheap coat rack with one hand, she jerked the thumb of the other back to her temporary office, “I’ve got to go finish things up with Captain Spivot. Once you’re finished checking and packing those files, grab the ones on the Toxin bust from out of my office and make sure they get to the CCPD. Last thing we want is for something important to get lost in the shuffle, and have some pencil pusher bitching us out all the way back to New York.”

Nodding casually, Patrick settled himself back into his chair, “Will do, Captain.” He then kicked his feet up onto his temporary desk and, with all the deliberation of someone who was paid by the hour, picked up his coffee with one hand and a file with the other.

Not smiling externally, Laura shrugged on her jacket and glanced over her shoulder at the nearly giddy reporter. “Wells. I trust you can find your way out of here without someone holding your hand.”

And then, not waiting for a response or offering a goodbye, Laura Hayward made her way out of the building, no sign of the satisfaction she felt apparent in her manner.

Wells might have been an overly exuberant, somewhat sketchy, infuriatingly idealistic overgrown puppy and intense pain in her ass… but for all that he drove her up a wall, he was a _good_ man and one that, Laura had no problem admitting to herself, definitely had his uses.

She didn’t agree with Vinnie on everything, but sometimes he _did_ have a point about the benefits of friends and associates with extralegal tendencies.

\-----

_"Date with the Demon – Celebrated General Caught in flagrante delicto with Murderous Cabal"_

“ – the last time, the only secrets being ‘hidden’ by S.T.A.R. Labs – aside from the one you’ve already sworn to _keep_ – are our in-development prototypes.”

“And again, I say that _you_ are a _terrible_ liar, Dr. Morgan.”

The familiar voices bounced off the walls before him, and a smile tugged somewhat painfully at his face.

“Believe what you want, I’m not going to make something up just so you can have something sensational to publish. I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait for our next press release, like everyone else.”

“Aw c’mon doc, you can tell me! What’s the big secret?” He could hear the brilliant grin in the jovial voice, “Remnants of a crashed spaceship? Time-machine? Stable portal to alternate dimensions? Secret prison for metahominid supervillains? Dinosaur? Army of telepathic weregorillas?” The audible grin was nearly deafening, “Secret prison filled with telepathic dinosaur-riding weregorilla supervillains from an alternate dimension?”

“… Where do you even _get_ these ideas?”

“Look, you gotta give me _something_ here. I’ve got a reputation to uphold and – holy _shit!_ ”

“What do - _Judas Priest!_ ”

Wearily, HR swayed to a halt in front of two horrified pairs of eyes, raising one arm with difficulty and offering a tiny, pained wave. “Hi guys. How was your day?”

One set of brown eyes stared at him from over a gaping mouth, “Good _grief_ HR, what the hell happened to you?!” A hand gestured to his less than healthy self. “You look like you pissed off a mob of angry loan sharks!”

“Ah, no, no.” He started to give a dismissive wave, then stopped when he remembered how much moving hurt. “Just got kidnapped by a supervillain.”

_**“Again?!”**_ Randolph Morgan’s expression was a study of pure overprotective horror as the scientist stumbled over to the well beaten reporter, giving a wide birth to his ‘guest’ and drawing to an abrupt halt a few feet from HR, hands stalling awkwardly in the air between them.

Smiling tiredly, HR gave an ill-advised shrug of one shoulder. “You know… that’s what al Ghul said when she realized _I_ was the one who’d broken into her base?” He smiled reassuringly – he hoped – at his partner and shuffled over to collapse in a nearby chair. “Honestly, I think she’s reached the point where seeing me just causes exasperation more than anything.”

Their semi-welcome interloper blinked at him, edging out of his initial horror, “When you say ‘al Ghul…’ the head of the League of Shadows has kidnapped you often enough to _get sick of you_?” The other man broke off into a fit of snickers, apparently over his sympathy and unconcerned by the death glare Randolph was shooting his way. “Only you, HR.” He wiped a tear from the corner of one eye, grinning, “Only you.”

“What can I say,” HR couldn’t help but grin back, “I’m one of a kind.”

“You’re a reckless lunatic with no regard for your own safety or sense of mortality, _that’s_ what you are!” 

Blinking a little against a faint curtain of sparkles that _probably_ weren’t actually dancing through the air, HR nodded agreeably. “al Ghul actually said something to that effect herself, while we were having tea.” He shrugged again, and just as ill-advisedly, at their deeply concerned stares, “What? People like me. And want to feed and hydrate me. And al Ghul can be really nice for a mass murdering, assassinating, social-Darwiny, secret ancient cult leader type person.” He reached up to wipe something wet off his lower lip, missed his face entirely, and then managed to brush the trail of blood off on his second attempt, wincing slightly. “Actually, I’m pretty sure she was about to let me go with a stern warning and some qurabiya when some pissed off former clients showed up and then The Accelerated Man joined in and started handing everyone their asses.” He snuffled wearily, then blinked. “What?”

Both men were staring at him, nearly identical expressions of “why are you like this,” “how are you still alive,” “you stupid precious little snowflake made of puppies,” “how are you this adorable,” “I want to cuddle you so much more than I should,” and “I want to lock you away in an inescapable bubble-wrap lined panic room where you’ll be safe from yourself and I can cuddle and protect you to my heart’s content.”

It was a weirdly specific expression, and one he was weirdly used to seeing.

At least this time it was coming from friends rather than supervillains.

That was always a little awkward.

Sighing and shaking his head, their guest gave HR a look of profound – decidedly imitation – frustration. “Figures. The rest of us slog about, striving desperately and…” he shot a significantly more genuine look of annoyance at an unrepentant Randolph, “fruitlessly for any kind of story, and you get a clash between a secret society of assassins, their evil clients, and a genuine superhero just _handed_ to you.” He sighed dramatically, “Guess now we know whose paper is getting only scoop worth having this week.”

“Actually…” still blinking, HR resisted the impulse to shake his head, “I… _probably_ shouldn’t run this story.” He smiled weakly at the shocked stares _that_ got him, then decided to ignore Randolph’s little squeal of delight. “I mean… I just get the feeling that al Ghul would find that… kinda rude, you know? And she was a _really_ good host today and everything, so…” 

“No.” The other reporter stared at him, blatantly horrified. “No, you _wouldn’t_. You wouldn’t just… just let a story like _that_ disappear into oblivion. That would be… un-American. And worse,” his eyes narrowed, and he pointed an accusing finger towards HR, “ _unjournalistic._ ”

“No, it would be the _sane thing to do._ For once.” Randolph’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he leaned in closer to stare into HR’s eyes. “You have a concussion, don’t you.”

“Guys, guys, _guys_.” Wincing, he held his hands up in a warding gesture, cutting off any further histrionics, “ _Please_. I’m _ok_ ,” he nodded delicately towards his partner, “and _not_ going to write this story; _but_ ,” he turned to the other reporter, “I never said I was just going to let the story die.”

There was a pause. Then the other man’s expression illuminated. “You don’t mean…”

HR grinned brightly, winked, and – taking a moment to fish his most trusted companion out of a vest pocket – twisted the base of his pen counterclockwise until there was a faint click and…

_“-don’t **care** about your order’s so called honor! I didn’t hire you people to kill District Attorney Lance just so you could decide to ‘spare a worthy opponent’ or whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull! Now what are you going to do about this cluster-”_

_“Calm yourself, General Eiling. The Demon’s Head is no lackey to be dictated to. If you are so **dissatisfied** with the service provided, then perhaps it is time we discussed **your** failure to -”_

HR clicked the pen off, then waved it in his peer’s direction. “I believe someone was saying something about needing a story?”

The other man stared at him in wonder. “Seriously?”

Chuckling softly, he nodded. “Just… stop bullying my partner, ok?” He rolled his eyes in amusement, “You’re already going to get the exclusive when Randy decides to come out of the closet as the brains behind S.T.A.R., you don’t _really_ need to pester him for something else every time you’re in town.”

HR’s fellow reporter merely responded with a smile of pure joy, practically vibrating in his seat. “You beautiful, generous lunatic. I’d offer to name a child after you if I knew what your initials stood for.”

Wells snickered, awkwardly twirling his pen over stiff fingers. “Let’s just say you owe me one and leave it at that, deal?”

“Deal.” He stood and made to walk over, then – eyes catching the face of his watch – blanched. “Ah hell, not tonight though.” He winced, “No time to transcribe anything. I don’t suppose…” he trailed off, looking longingly at the stylus.

HR jerked his hand backwards like he’d been burned, mindless of the stab of pain, and hissed. “My pen.”

“Ok, ok.” The other man grinned, “Your pen.” He tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged, smiling lopsidedly. “Tomorrow then? I’ll buy lunch.”

“… That totally won’t count as your favor.”

The reporter snickered, nodding obligingly, “Fair enough. Seriously though,” he pulled one had free and glanced at his watch again, “I’ve got to go _now_. Nora’s going to be late at the dig tonight, and you wouldn’t _believe_ how much babysitters charge for overtime.”

HR started to rise, then decided it wasn’t worth it and collapsed back in the chair with a sigh and a grin. “See you tomorrow, Bill.”

Beaming like the sun, Bill Smithback shot a jaunty salute towards HR and Randolph and, tucking his hands back into his pockets, made his way out of S.T.A.R. Labs with a whistle and a spring in his step.

\-----

_"Nothing to See Here, Please Move Along"_ \- or - _"Pay No Attention to the Genius behind the Mask"_

“I can’t _believe_ you let yourself get kidnapped by supervillains. _Again!_ ”

“Yeah, HR winced, painfully divesting himself of his jacket and struggling up onto the examination table, “you mentioned.” Hissing a weary sigh, he tracked his partner as he paced franticly around the room, “I didn’t do it on _purpose_ you know.”

The other man stopped abruptly, leveling an irritated glare at the reporter, “Right. And there was _absolutely no way_ you could have avoided being _seen_ , let alone captured, by a bunch of highly visible ninja.” The scientist shook his head in frustration, “You’re going to get yourself _killed_ one of these days.”

“I’d like to think I’m a _little_ resilient. Besides,” he cocked a mischievous little grin, “it’s not like most of the people who kidnap me want me dead anyway.”

“Don’t remind me.” Randolph Morgan’s face contorted into a weary grimace, and he reclined against a squeaking table, arms folded. “Your status as human Lima Syndrome bait is not comforting.”

His grin grew, “But it _is_ useful.”

“I’m _serious_ HR, you need to stop fostering affection in your kidnappers.” The taller man shuddered slightly, “At this rate Diogenes Pendergast is going to start leaving dismembered corpses on our doorstep like some kind of murder-fetishing feline. Now,” grimacing unhappily, he waved a hand towards the reporter, “fix yourself.”

HR’s eyes lit up. “I have it on good authority that that’s a task the gods dare not undertake.”

Randolph Morgan’s expression darkened. “That’s not what I meant, and you _know_ it.”

“Yeah,” he drawled, wincing through his fit of soft laughter, “but when someone just hands you something like that then -”

“Fix. Yourself.” An eye twitched. “ _Healthwise. **Now.**_ ”

HR hummed softly, stifling tilting his head in consideration. “I don’t know…”

“HR.”

“I’ve always thought I’d look pretty dashing with some scars…”

“HR, I _swear_ , if you don’t -”

“And you _have_ to admit, it’d garner some fan _tastic_ sympathy on future kidnappings…”

“I will _personally_ -”

“How’s the progress on biomechanical prosthetics comi-”

_**“Jonathan!”** _

“Ok, ok!” Giggling helplessly, HR raised his hands in surrender. “You win!” Still giggling at the look of nearly apoplectic frustration on his partner’s face, the reporter took a deep breath and then… blurred.

Pressing two fingers against his throbbing temple, the scientist sighed deeply and watched as his dearest – most _infuriating_ – friend’s vibrating form slowly returned to a solid state. Not ten seconds after he started, the now tangible reporter stretched his arms out widely and beamed, ready for judgment. “Happy?”

Morgan’s eyes darted over the other man appraisingly, noting the unblemished skin, clear and focused eyes, and easy breathing. Finally satisfied, he rubbed his eyes with a long sigh. “You’re a menace to the world at large and my blood pressure in particular.” He looked up imploringly over his hands, “ _Why_ do you always make that so _difficult_?”

Stretching and yawning widely, HR Wells – or, as a very, _very_ few people knew him, Jonathan Chambers – just shook his head easily and shot his partner a lopsided grin. “Maybe I just like being reminded that you care.” He snickered at the responding gesture, then hopped effortlessly off the table, “Y’know… I _am_ meeting Bill tomorrow. He’s going to notice my miraculous recovery, and he’s smart enough to put two-and-two together if this kind of thing keeps happening.”

“Maybe,” the words dripped with frost, “you should stop letting this kind of thing _happen_ in the _first place_.”

Chuckling, a touch embarrassed now, HR pulled out his pen and twirled it between his fingers. “Yeah, well,” he shrugged, taking hold of either end of the pen and twisting it in opposing directions in a rhythmic pattern, “crazy as it sounds there are some times and places when HR Wells has better access and stealth capability than The Accelerated Man.” And, with another casual shrug, he sent a brief vibration through the pen, the end clicking open in response and a seemingly impossible quantity of fabric propelling from out of the tiny stylus.

Halfway through a resigned sigh, the scientist did a double take when his partner picked up and shook out the speedsuit appraisingly. “Is that gash from a _katana_?! And are those… are those _bullet holes_?!”

Freezing, heavily damaged suit still held aloft, HR’s abruptly wide eyes flicked over to his horrified partner. “Um…” There was a moment of dead, deeply uncomfortable silence. Then the speedster abruptly vanished, reappearing a split second later with a burst of purplish lightning and without the offending suit. “So, anyway, uh, Bill!” His grin was massive and not at all nervous. “Keeping the identity secret and all that.” He sped out again and reappeared with small object in one hand, “Think we can set up the facial transmogrifier so it can simulate injuries, or…?”

Glaring, not at all impressed by the painful change of subject, Randolph Morgan held the other – increasingly fidgety – man’s gaze for a devastatingly long time. Then, at long last, he sighed wearily and rubbed at his eyes again. “Just tell him that I tested a new medical device on you. Something that speeds healing.” He shot off another glare, “Anyone who has ever met you will whole-heartedly believe that I would prioritize such a device.”

“Ouch?” A brief look of exaggerated offense crossed HR’s face, before fading back into his usual grin. “Yeah, he’ll probably buy that. And anyway,” he shrugged, twirling the transmogrifier between his fingers, “it’s not like _Bill_ figuring out the truth would be the worst thing ever.” He shrugged again at Morgan’s side glance, “I mean, he’s a good guy. He’s kept our partnership secret for a while now – after being promised the eventual exclusive, sure… but I’m _pretty_ sure I could talk him out of outing me as an unregistered metahominid superhero.” Nodding in satisfaction, he suddenly barked a laugh, “And now that I think of it, it’d probably get him off _your_ back if he thought he’d figured out our Deep Dark Secret.”

The scientist sniffed, “Possibly, but if it’s all the same to you I would rather we keep _both_ of our secrets as such.” He grimaced, possibilities racing through his mind, “For everyone’s sakes.”

“Probably for the best, yeah.” Still twirling the transmogrifier, HR ambled over to his partner and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder, hand coming to rest solidly a good foot away from the other man’s form. “And, now that all the excitement is over and we’re alone… food?” HR glanced up from the corner of his eyes, head tilted coquettishly and smile pleading, “I am literally starving, and am willing to make desert if you’ll supply the dinner.”

Rolling his eyes in not at all fond exasperation, the scientist reached over with one hand, fumbling briefly with the air above his watch. “Is that supposed to be an incentive? Odd as it may sound, I _like_ having a kitchen untouched by severe fire damage. Alright, alright,” he couldn’t help but chuckle at the look of mortal offense, finally working the watch off his wrist and closing his eyes briefly at the nauseating twisting in the air, “it’s a deal.” He started to turn away, then paused briefly. “Bananas Foster?”

The answering grin was almost blinding, “Deal.” Then, shooting a weary glance down the long corridor before them, the smaller of the two blinked up at his partner and smiled winningly, “Carry me?”

The scientist froze mid step, starring incredulously at the speedster. “You _can’t_ be serious.”

“C’mon!” HR flung his arms dramatically into the air, “I’ve had a rough day! I’m tired.” Sniffling pathetically, he shot a sad, childish look of pleading to his partner, “And my blood sugar is super low.”

His partner stared evenly at him, then walked away with a scoff, not at all moved. “You’re pathetic.”

For someone with ‘super low blood sugar’ HR was pretty lively as he skipped after him. “I’m _adorable_.”

“You’re a pest, and you can damn well walk to the kitchen on your own.”

“You’re so mean!”

“Then I guess you won’t mind me trading you in for the next available non-psychotic speedster.”

_“Solovar!”_ HR’s face was a masterpiece of betrayal. For all of two seconds, before a snicker broke through and, smiling warmly, he shoulder-checked his partner, taking the opportunity to snuggle briefly as he sunk into the mass of pale gray fur. “You know you love me.”

“Not even a little bit. You’re objectively the worst.” Rolling his eyes, the displaced gorilla scientist tried to shrug off the human, then sighed when HR just latched back onto his side like a particularly clingy limpet. “You’re a ridiculous, tiny, hairless little lesser-hominid, and the day I met you was the worst of my life.”

Nuzzling lightly at one massive shoulder, HR just grinned up at the simian supergenius before pulling away and sticking his tongue out cheekily. “No it wasn’t.”

For a moment, he managed to keep his expression annoyed. Then, with a final sigh, Solovar gave up and grinned back at his partner. “No.” Reaching one large hand out, he ruffled the little human’s hair, chuckling softly when the highly affectionate speedster preened at the attention. “It wasn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> _Or, 5 stories HR Wells got with the help of Agent Pendergast's friends (and enemy), 1 he gave away, and 1 he kept._
> 
> __  
> **I regret nothiiiiiiiiing!**  
>     
>  _Ok, seriously though, I actually had a **really** fun time writing this and hope you enjoyed reading it! Thank you, and until my next offering of madness!_
> 
> _PS: Reality has contrived that I currently have "Blue Labyrinth," "Crimson Shore," and "The Obsidian Chamber" sitting on my bookshelf, with a very sad and lonely bookmark a couple chapters into "Blue Labyrinth." So, just on the off chance... no spoilers? Please, thank you, have a lovely day, and come again soon! :)_


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